


What You Are

by rednihilist



Category: Smallville
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drama, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-16
Updated: 2011-11-02
Packaged: 2018-02-13 01:14:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2131515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rednihilist/pseuds/rednihilist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's always hope that someday we'll get it right. (A post-season 10 AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: 'Smallville' and certain characters belong to Miller-Gough et al. No profit is gained from this writing, only, hopefully, enjoyment.
> 
> AN: This work is incomplete and discontinued, but I still want it somewhere.

" . . . the mirror box," he finished, but Clark had kind of zoned out for a bit up to that point, so when he looked up and made eye contact he was pretty lost.

"Uh, 'mirror box,' huh?" was all he could come up with.

The other frowned, glared really, and his body language shifted noticeably -- shoulders hunching in, stance widening, head dropping down so he now stared out from under his eyelashes and brows.

It all would have been really intimidating, if not for the fact that Clark knew without a doubt that he could take this guy, or at least give as good as he got.

So, really, in the end, the show of anger and temper just made Clark want to laugh, not cower in fear. But he settled for smiling.

"What of it?" the other barked, his hands curling into fists at his sides, and Clark didn't think that particular move was intentional. At least, it never was when he did it. Often, he found himself unconsciously clenching his hands at his sides like that when he was just frustrated beyond belief -- waiting in line with crying kids and stupid customers, dealing with politicians as he tried to get a sound bite for an interview.

"Well," Clark said, dropping the smile but still keeping his voice upbeat, "seems like kind of a stupid name, is all." He raised his eyebrows at the end, seeing if he could get a different reaction out of the other, trying to lighten the mood a little.

Things were heavy enough as it was, and one thing Clark had learned over the years was that if he couldn't laugh about something it wouldn't get better. It'd just fester inside until it burst forth in a tirade of hate, hurt, and despair.

It was always better to make light of things that could be made light of, and full-on revel in the trivialities. So much in his life was, well, life and death, so the little things had to be bumped up in importance too, just to even everything out. Going out to dinner in a restaurant was like a national holiday in Clark's mind. Staying in for a movie night, or having a cup of hot chocolate, or buying groceries, these things were the real deal.

Joking about terminology? Clark had learned to do that practically first thing, way back in high school when the first of his powers had just started cropping up. It wasn't even habit now. It was just him.

And, looking at this other. . . him, he thought a lot might have been helped if the guy would just lighten up a little. Usually, Clark was the buzzkill, but this other Clark made him look like the life of the party. It was surreal.

God, this was the very definition of surreal.

"What?" the other suddenly snapped, his voice echoing over and over around the barn. Clark winced, and guiltily dropped his head.

He had been kind of staring, and he knew how much he himself hated that. Figured this other. . . him. . . wouldn't care too much for that, either.

"Sorry," Clark offered, quietly, trying to calm the guy down by example. It usually worked for him anyway. That instantly made him think of his parents, his mom all the way in D.C., who would be ten times better at dealing with all this than Clark was, and his dad. . .

"It's what the thing's called," the other tersely responded, and Clark mentally yanked his focus back onto. . . himself. "I didn't come up with it," the other added defensively, "so yuck it up all you like, but it won't change the fact that-- "

"Yeah, yeah," Clark interrupted, lifting his head and holding his hands out to show he hadn't truly meant anything by it. "Look, I know that. I'm just-- " He met the other's eyes again, relieved to see that the anger seemed to have somewhat drained away from that body. The face was still contorted, though, but that actually seemed more for show than anything.

At least, for Clark it usually was. Sometimes he had to consciously think about his facial expressions. He wondered if, and kind of hoped that, it was the same for this Clark, too.

Clark took a deep breath and stood up, but he didn't move any closer to the other, just kept to his spot at the couch. He didn't want to seem like he was pushing him or anything, just trying to get on an even footing, sort of.

"Look," Clark said, still keeping his voice calm and low, "I wasn't trying to. . . piss you off or anything, okay? I just found it funny. This huge, life-altering device, and it's called the 'mirror box'? Like it's where some little girl puts her jewelry, with one of those dancing ballerina figurines inside, you know?" He lifted his eyebrows and tried a small smile. "How is that not funny? The great Kryptonians and all they can come up with is 'mirror box.'"

Clark kept it up for a few seconds more, just keeping his eyes and expression steady, and just as he was about to give up he got a reaction.

The other suddenly grinned, and it was only maybe half cynical-looking. He threw his shoulders back in a sign of casualness and said, "Wonder if it originally played music, too."

Clark snorted, adding, "It's not even really a box." To which, the other nodded.

The good moment kind of died there, though, as they both were seemingly at a loss for something to say to fill in the resulting silence. Clark took a few cautious steps forward, coming up on the other side of the open loft doors. He almost chuckled again when he realized the two of them were now really. . . mirroring each other -- Clark leaning against the wood with his arms crossed and the other in the exact same position over on the other side of the open space.

A minute went by and then maybe another before the other Clark broke the stillness.

"Your Lex," the other started, and without thinking about it Clark found himself standing up straight and avoiding eye contact at all costs, "was he. . . ?" The other trailed off, and everything in Clark demanded he change the subject, ignore and refuse to answer whatever the question actually was, but. . .

"Was he, what?" Clark's mouth said, and he snapped it closed after saying that so quickly that his teeth in fact made a loud clicking noise.

Another moment, a few seconds during which the other turned his head and Clark could see him staring back at him from the corner of his eye.

Then, "Was he a good man?" the other asked, and it was the way he asked it that caused Clark to hesitate. So much was involved in not only asking, but also answering that question, and Clark didn't. . . well, he wanted to get it right, even as he struggled to simply think about it.

God, Lex.

This time, it was at least a few minutes of almost utter silence, at least between the two of them. Lois was inside the house, humming as she typed at something, and the farm itself was always loud with the sounds of trees blowing in the wind and various animals doing animal things, and they weren't that far from town, or even the highway. The farm was never silent, not really -- no place was, not for. . . them.

During that time, Clark thought he should have been phrasing his answer. He should have used those few minutes to come up with some illuminating anecdote, some tale that would serve as moral, and motivation to change, and that wouldn't set him back with this other Clark -- something his dad would say, something that would make everything look better.

But he drew a blank. All Clark could think, on a loop, over and over and over again, was, God, Lex.

This Clark, this other him, had somehow killed the other Lex.

And Clark himself had as good as done so here, too.

Finally, as the sun just began setting, and streaks of blue and purple and pink raced across the sky, Clark took a deep breath and just said the first thing that came to him.

Was Lex a good man?

"He tried to be," Clark answered. Then, turning to meet his doppelganger's eyes, he added, "He wanted to be."

The other just stared back, but Clark knew he was thinking hard, could see it in his eyes, in his mouth which he always pursed, and in the slow wrinkling of his forehead and that spot between his eyebrows.

"I think mine was like that, too," the other finally whispered, lifting his chin up high at the end, daring Clark to. . . do something, say something to contradict him.

Or waiting for him to condemn him.

But sometimes Clark even surprised himself.

He reached out, slowly, and set his right hand firmly down on the other's left shoulder, and then Clark told him something he knew he needed to hear.

"We all are," he said, quirking his lips. "And you know what I've come to realize?" The other frowned in confusion, and Clark squeezed his shoulder. "There's always hope that someday we'll get it right.

"We just have to keep trying."


	2. One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And he feels excitement, and anxiety, and he doesn't know why. . .

In all actuality, the first face he ever sees is his own. It is as a reflection in the large, floor-to-ceiling window he stands near, in the office he's somehow familiar with, in a building he for some reason thinks. . . might be his. He feels something, some deep emotion while he's slowly realizing that the man before him is himself, and he likes neither the feeling, nor the sight.

The second face he sees belongs to a person who, technically, is not a person any longer. It is an attractive face belonging to what was overall, until recently it seems, an exceedingly attractive woman. Now, it is a corpse, a dead body, and again he feels something looking down at it. He thinks he knew this woman when she was alive. He must have, to feel such strong, clashing emotions now when he looks at her, when he kneels down next to her. He can't bring himself to reach out, however, and is unable to really determine why that is. He's not shocked that this woman's dead body is lying here, and he's not physically repulsed. And he also knows without a doubt that this woman is dead, has not even the slightest doubt, not even the faintest need to check and make sure.

He is certain of this.

There are connections here, connections that he isn't making, synapses that aren't firing for some reason. He feels things, and knows things about himself -- that he is left-handed; that he will every time choose coffee or water over tea, soda, energy drinks, and anything else; that he is wearing an expensive suit nearly three years out of style; that he is a workaholic. And his body seems to know this room's dimensions exceedingly well, knows for instance the exact placement of the desk so that he can walk past it at just the right angle and avoid clipping his hip on a corner during his dash back to the window.

He goes back to the window, away from the woman's body, and stares at his reflection intently. It is his; it is him.

But he does not know who he is. He does not know his name. He does not know where he is. He does not know who the woman was who is now dead on the floor, and yet he knows the dimensions of this room and his fingers know to run back over his bald head and he knows mathematical equations and scientific formulas and--

He can't remember his own name, or how he came to be wherever it is he now stands. He can't remember.

He cannot remember.

And so he smoothly about-faces, unerringly reaches out to grab the phone sitting on the massive desk, and then dials three digits that he knows, knows, knows, knows this, and what the capital of Kansas is and what constellations appear in the sky over the northern hemisphere in summer--

"911, what is your emergency?"

"Yes," he says, and knows that normally he would be upset at the tone and pitch of his own voice in this moment, "I'm calling because I can't seem to remember anything."

"Can't remember anything?" the female voice repeats back, and he knows, knows, is positive, that the tone he's hearing from the operator indicates confusion and disbelief. "Sir, can you give me your name and location, so that I can send an ambulance?"

He knows that it is laughter which then bursts forth from his mouth, and that it is undoubtedly hysterical and unsettling. "Uh, no, I'm afraid I can't do that. You see," he says, and then lifts his head to once more look across the room at the dead body that he thinks he is responsible for, "that's the problem. I can't remember anything.

"I don't know who I am. I don't-- I can't remember anything."

***

He waits outside on the corner for the ambulance to arrive after successfully, effortlessly, navigating what turned out to be the highest floor of the Luthorcorp headquarters. Outside, there are people in the streets and they're all, every single one of them, overjoyed and celebratory and even thankful, exceedingly grateful for something. Some look at him and turn away, and then do what he knows is a double-take and peer at him closely again. Most of the happy people ignore him, however, and he finds he is simultaneously relieved and annoyed at that.

The ambulance comes, and he takes a deep breath before stepping forward and waving to the drivers, the two people he's certain are paramedics and trained for this sort of thing. The vehicle stops -- is put into 'Park,' he knows, and then turned off -- and the two men in uniforms step out. They too give him strange looks, just like those certain people here on the street did, and they call him by a name.

"Mr. Luthor?" the one on the right says, and he knows the politically correct term is 'African American' and the informal is 'black,' and that those are bags and gloves and the man's wearing glasses and glass is sand that has been heated to an extreme temperature until it is liquid and then it is put into cold water where it bubbles and bursts and--

"Mr. Luthor?" the other paramedic repeats, and he realizes that they are referring to him.

They think he is Mr. Luthor.

Or do they know he is Mr. Luthor?

He breathes out deeply, straightens his spine, and rolls his shoulders back in a series of gestures he knows he does often. Then just as he's opening his mouth to respond, a male voice loudly shouts close by, and all three of them turn to look in the direction it came from.

"What the holy hell?!" a blond man shouts, frantically pushing through the crowd of people. The man is looking directly and unequivocally straight at him, and at the two paramedics in front of him. "Lex?!" the man says, and, again, it is disbelieving and confused.

"Mr. Queen," the paramedic on the right suddenly says, and he knows that's relief in the paramedic's voice, and in turn he feels frustration and. . . anger? "Do you know what's going on here? Mr. Luthor called 911, saying he couldn't remember anything at all -- some kind of amnesia?"

The blond man -- Queen, apparently -- comes closer and looks at the paramedic, then glances over at the ambulance, before finally coming back to stare at. . . him, at Mr. Luthor? Lex?

Is he this Lex Luthor? Do people know him? Some on the street seemed to recognize him, and these two paramedics also, and now this Mr. Queen. Do they know him?

The blond man is staring right at him, right at his face, and at his eyes in particular. He says, "Lex, what the hell are you playing at?" But even he knows that's doubt in the blond man's voice.

Queen doesn't know what's going on, either.

And he thinks the only person who truly would know is now dead -- a crumpled, rotting body in the top-floor office of the Luthorcorp headquarters. Luthorcorp. Luthor. Mr. Luthor. Lex. Luthor.

"Mr. Queen, is it?" he asks the blond man, and when that gets an incredulous, open-mouthed facial expression in reaction, he feels a small amount of pride that he doesn't know the reason for. "Do you know me?" he goes on. "Because I can't remember anything before," and he knows, knows, knows, he is wearing a watch on his right wrist, "uh, about 20 minutes ago. Amnesia? Is that the word?" He glances between the three men, Queen and the two paramedics, who are all staring at him now with that same incredulous look on their faces. "That is the correct term, right?"

"Lex. . . " this Queen man says, and it's hesitant yet. . . he knows there's something else under it, some other tone or bit of emotion he's missing, some piece he's unable to decipher.

He still can't make the connections, the neural pathways and bridges in his brain misfiring or broken somehow, and then he realizes he's already forgotten in the scant half hour he's been. . . awake. . . to point out, to anyone, an incredibly vital piece of information.

"I don't know how or why," he says, "but there's a dead body up in the top-floor office of, uh, the Luthorcorp headquarters?" He points behind himself at the building he came out of. "It's the biggest office, the one with huge windows that look out on that building?" And he gestures with a wave of his hand at the equally tall skyscraper across the street, the one with a huge rotating sphere at its top. "It's a woman's body," he adds, although immediately he hopes that's not the real distinguishing feature. That would entail other male bodies being up there, and he didn't even think to look. . . maybe there was some sort of incident, like a disgruntled employee or a hostage situation. Maybe he isn't responsible for. . .

"Do you think," he begins to ask, looking up from where he'd unconsciously dropped his eyes downward to think, "that I somehow hit my head? I know that's one cause of memory loss. . . "

"Jesus Christ," says one of the paramedics, the one on the left.

"Mr. Queen," the other paramedic says, turning to directly address the blond man, "would you please stay here while I go contact the police? We need to report this immediately, and as you know," and here he waves at him, "Mr., uh, Luthor here as well, maybe that might help with his-- "

"Yeah, yeah," Queen answers, interrupting and gesturing for the paramedic to go call it in. The man does, dashing back to the ambulance. Then his partner, the other paramedic, takes a deep breath and readjusts his grip on the bag he's holding.

"Why don't you have a seat, Mr. Luthor, and I'll take a look at you. See if I can't find a contusion, some kind of head injury to account for the memory loss."

So he lets himself be led over to a bench, and sits down and is examined. And during all this, the Queen guy is right there with him, following and hovering and every once in awhile looking upward with a strange expression on his face.

Then, police cars start to pull up, and Queen steps back and straightens his spine, and so he stands up and does the same, and that's when Queen says quietly, in the kind of voice he knows isn't meant to be overheard, "God, Clark, you're sure gonna get a kick out of this."

And that's when Lex looks away from Queen, and, for some reason, straight up into the sky.

And he feels excitement, and anxiety, and he doesn't know why.


	3. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Then he smiled in answer to Lex's enthusiastic grin, and he put his hand on Lex's shoulder, and it felt like stepping back in time.

It was like days, weeks, half a year, an entire lifetime of being up there, arriving just in time, rescuing, helping -- flying in and swooping down and reaching out to put things right. He'd felt better than alive, stronger and more able than ever before. He'd felt. . . right.

The problem was it had to end sometime. He had to come back down to earth, put on the costume again, and pretend to be someone and something he wasn't. He had to be Clark Kent, Daily Planet reporter, nerd, dweeb, clumsy bumbling loser with an upstanding Senator for a mom and a rising star journalist for a fiancée (still -- didn't quite manage to say those two all-important words in the midst of everything with Darkseid and Ollie).

So, really, it was something like five hours later when he came to a stop, one for longer than a few seconds here and there on his flight around the world. He'd flown, flown forward in time down to New Zealand and Australia and China, Japan, flown backward and down to Brazil, up to Canada, across the U.S. and back again, over to the Ukraine and down to Italy, north to Sweden -- around and around and he'd done it, helped, saved several, assisted, aided.

Clark felt like he was still flying, soaring on Cloud Nine right now as he landed on the roof of The Daily Planet. The gravel crunched under his feet, under the boots he didn't even feel the weight of anymore. He looked down, clenched a fist in mock-threat, and then laughed. He full-out laughed, having to bend over even because he was going so hard.

He'd done it. He, Clark Kent, Kal-El, Smallville, Clark-Bar, he had just saved the freakin' planet Earth from certain annihilation.

There was a sudden sound, and Clark looked up just in time to see the door to the roof come swinging open. He was still kind of laughing, still grinning wide and full, and before another blink of her eyes he was across the roof and holding Lois tight. Her heart was beating so fast, and her breathing was loud and quick, and she wrapped her arms around him so tightly he didn't think even he'd be able to break free.

"Oh, my God, Clark!" she breathed out, and he pulled back a little to get in a good look at her face. Then he laughed because he'd never seen Lois' eyes ever get quite that wide. She frowned at him in response, lifted her left hand and whacked him on the arm, and then gave in and just grinned right back at him, eventually running her hands over his back -- along the cape and underneath it and back around to his chest and up once more to his shoulders and neck.

Clark just reached up and cupped her face in his hands, his dirty filthy soot-covered hands, and then he kissed her before she could open her mouth again, and kept right on kissing her after she had.

And they floated upward, and only realized it when Lois accidentally lost a shoe over 2nd and Grovers and whacked him on the arm again because those were evidently her favorite pair.

 

***

The call came roughly an hour after he'd finished cleaning up, as he was ravenously shoveling in something horrendous that Lois had made. It was from his cell, which was lying on the counter by the sink, at which Lois stood doing the dishes, which was one of the few "household chores" she didn't hate doing. Clark looked up, and Lois turned around to raise an eyebrow at him.

"What?" he said, only realizing too late that his mouth was still full. He swallowed quickly as the phone rang again. "What?" he repeated, and Lois was by now rolling her eyes at him as she turned back to the sink, clearly amused and trying to play it off as frustration and disgust.

"You gonna get that?" she asked, and Clark knew the bored, uninterested tone of her voice was a complete lie.

So he rushed over and grabbed the phone, coming to a stop right next to Lois and at the tail-end of a huge gust of air blowing in her direction. It sent her hair flying across her face, and resulted in one of the funniest expressions he'd been witness to in a long time.

And this was why, when he opened his phone and answered it with a "Hello?" he was chuckling and happy.

Which, of course, was why it was bad news and more bad news on the other end of the line.

"Clark?" a voice asked, and immediately he switched gears because Ollie's voice was all business, serious business, and Play-Time was over.

"Oliver," he answered, stepping away from Lois, who was now pushing her hair off her face and looking at him in concern, "what's up?"

"Well, I hate to burst your cheerful bubble there, Clark, but I've got some. . . " Oliver trailed off briefly, audibly clearing his throat before trying again. "I've got some bad news, and then some worse news, and neither can wait." He took a deep breath and then said in a noticeably quieter and more subdued voice, "Looks like you're not closing up shop yet today, man. Sorry 'bout that."

"No, no," Clark hurried to respond, "don't worry about it. What is it? Something else happen? With you, or Chloe? Or Tess?" Clark had to turn away at that point, as the worried look on Lois' face right then was too much to handle along with whatever bad news was coming.

"Yeah," Ollie said, and his voice was still that distressing quiet, only now he seemed to be attempting distance too, and the result was just downright painful to hear. "Look, I've never done this before, so I'll just say it. Tess is dead, Clark. She was-- her body was found in her office at Luthorcorp. Stabbed. She bled out."

And while Clark was standing there in his apartment, open-mouthed and too upset to speak, with Lois coming up to him and setting a hand on his shoulder and trying to get him to tell her what was going on, Oliver continued talking, and each word was another spike through the heart.

Another knife. Another tear.

God, she'd bled out? In her own office. Oh, Tess, he wanted to say.

He'd saved the world while she was dying.

No. This wasn't how it was supposed to be.

" . . . and it gets even better," Oliver was saying, "because you'll never guess whose fingerprints are all over the blade, Clark, everywhere in the whole office. This is one for the record books."

Oliver took another deep breath over the line, but Clark beat him to it, his whole body, but especially his voice, colder now than the Arctic Fortress and he just knew.

"Lex." And there was no hopeful finish to it that time, damn it.

There was silence, and then Lois gave him a little insistent shake by the shoulders. Clark looked at her, and she was now in front of him, her face confused and terrified.

But Ollie knew too, and there was a world of emotion in his voice and yet none at all as he answered, "Yeah. It was Lex. He's back, Clark. I don't-- I don't how, but he's here." There was another significant pause, during which Clark gathered Lois close to him in a hug and Ollie just breathed in and out a few times. Then, it was like a switch had been thrown. Instead of grieving shock, it was suddenly determination -- and, oddly, more confusion -- in Oliver's voice.

"We're here at Met General," Oliver stated bluntly. "They've got him in for an MRI right now, but he should be done here pretty soon with that. Already did a CT, and now some specialists from the West Coast are being called in and yadda yadda yadda. They said something about a Psych eval, of course, and then there're the police who're all chomping at the bit. Emil's around here somewhere. Saw him earlier, but so far no one's really said a goddamn thing. But. . . I do have an idea that I'd like to run by you guys -- when you get here, of course."

Oliver went to take another breath, presumably to continue briefing him on the situation, and Clark jumped in before he could.

"Ollie," he said carefully, Lois in his arms, standing in their apartment on what was supposed to be their wedding night, "what are you talking about? Who are you talking about?" He hesitated before asking quietly, "Lex? At Met Gen?" Lois reached up then and gripped Clark by the chin, dragging his face down so she could pointedly meet his eyes and give him that 'What the hell is going on, Smallville?!' look, but all Clark could do was shrug in response because. . .

He honestly didn't know at this point. He'd thought he did, but. . . why would Lex agree to go to the hospital? Why go in the first place, and after all signs point to him having. . . killed Tess? It didn't make any sense.

But Oliver just sighed over the line and said, "I'm sorry, man. I guess I'm jumping ahead of myself here. Okay, so, survey says Lex-- Lex, who's somehow back from the fucking dead. . . it looks like he killed Tess, Clark. It's there. The evidence is pretty damn straightforward. The problem is -- well, one of them -- is that, get this, Lex has no memory."

Oliver paused significantly, waiting for some cue from Clark that he'd heard and understood, and so Clark responded with, "Okay. . . "

"Yeah," Ollie huffed out, chuckling but not from any sense of humor, "none whatsoever. He doesn't know who he is, doesn't know me, or, fuck, didn't know who Tess was up there in the office. He didn't even know where he was, either, cos apparently he's the one who called 911, and it took the dispatcher about five minutes of having him freakin' describe what he saw out the window and a slow-ass trace on the call to figure out he was in Luthorcorp. I show up. . . wanting to. . . " Ollie made a sound, and Clark knew it was him trying to pull himself together, not break down again, especially over the phone.

"Ollie, it's okay," Clark said before he could think. He took a deep breath himself and offered, "Just wait there, and Lois and I will be there in bit. We'll deal with this together, okay?" he said.

There was the audible sound of Oliver swallowing heavily and then he responded, "Yeah, you're right." He sighed again. "God, what a mess, Clark. I've also, uh, offered to go down and identify-- identify her. . . her body, I mean. So, if I'm not up here when you guys get here, just-- "

"We'll wait," Clark interrupted, attempting calm reassurance when he felt both completely numb and utterly exposed. "We'll talk to Emil, and discuss this, and together, Oliver, together, we'll figure out what to do."

***

He and Lois walked quickly, hand-in-hand, the five blocks separating their apartment from the hospital. Clark gave her all the information on the way, and it was she who pushed ahead and led him unerringly to the right floor, the right end, the right nurses' station. Lois got them in, through a crowd of personnel, other members of the media, and a long line of people in suits Clark guessed were Luthorcorp lawyers.

He hadn't even thought to bring his press pass, but Lois had sure brought hers. She waved it in everyone's face, and dragged Clark along behind her with a tight grip on his hand.

"Close friends of the family," Lois said to the nurse, and in return was given the room number.

"Official Daily Planet business," she used on the other reporters, including a few Clark distractedly recognized as actually being from the Planet.

"Oliver Queen requested our presence specifically," she directed at the hemming and hawing lawyers.

And then they were right there, room 503, and Clark squeezed Lois' hand, and she turned and looked at him, and then she squeezed back.

Lois got them there, but Clark reached out and turned the handle, opened the door, and started inside. It was only when both he and Lois were all the way in with the door again closed behind them like a period at the end of a sentence that the thought occurred to Clark that he probably should have knocked first.

The room was quiet, but it wasn't empty.

"Oh, my fucking God," were the first words any of them said, and immediately Clark turned to look at Lois in surprise. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the figure on the bed dart his head over to stare at her, too.

"Nice, Lois," Clark commented quietly, and she pulled a moderately regretful face in response and shrugged. But then it was time to literally face the fact that Lex was alive and here in the room with them.

Clark turned his head back to the bed, and what he saw. . .

It was like a punch to the gut, one hard enough to make him question his own eyes, and then his sanity.

He looked the same as he had earlier, hours before when Clark had seen him and exchanged words with him, only completely and utterly different. Suddenly, it wasn't so difficult to instantly believe that the man before them had no memory, for there was a look on his face, an expression that seemed so. . . not empty, but not entirely full, either.

It was Lex sitting there, all right, but he wasn't really Lex, not completely -- or maybe he was, just stripped down, streamlined. Either way, immediately Clark knew that he wasn't faking anything. He was certain of it. The posture was right, but the facial expression was too. . . open.

It was the Lex of his memories, the guy whom, without a second thought, he'd pulled from that wrecked car nose-down in the river. But even that. . . even that wasn't totally true.

Then it hit him, like another punch, only this time one a bit higher up than his stomach.

It was like that little boy in Lex's head, the one Clark had seen and spoken to and promised to stay friends with all those years ago. The look on this Lex's face now was the same one that'd been on Alexander's -- a little wary, a little nervous, but in comparison to how Lex normally looked, so incredibly trusting.

Clark probably should have felt like a complete heel for what he did next but he didn't.

"Lois, could you give us a minute alone?" he asked, having to actually consciously drag his attention away from Lex in order to look at her.

"What?" she asked, and Clark winced. Yeah, she was incredulous and already on her way to doubtful and mildly insulted, but it was so important. This moment was crucial, and Clark couldn't. . . he couldn't, honestly, risk Lois screwing it up. She wouldn't mean to, and if he had a chance to clue her in or explain it to her, then she'd do okay, but. . .

It felt like he didn't have time. Soon, Oliver would be back up here, or the doctors and specialists would come in, or Emil, or the Luthorcorp spin doctors, or someone or something else would interrupt them and Clark would miss this chance.

"I promise," he said to her, cupping her face again in his hands and looking her right in the eyes so she'd know he was being completely honest and sincere, "I will tell you everything later. I'll explain, okay? But right now I need you to wait outside for Oliver and Emil and-- and give me some time, okay? This is so important, Lois. I'll explain later."

She frowned at him, more of an assessing look than anything else, and then she leaned forward and kissed him briefly on the lips. With one last pointed glance at the bed and its occupant, Lois said a heartfelt, "You're damn right, you will," raised her eyebrows, and then turned and left. She closed the door behind her, and Clark could hear her immediately start talking to someone out there before he tuned her out.

Then, he turned and faced the bed again. At a loss as to how exactly he should start, Clark shot an awkward smile at Lex and crossed the width of the room until he was standing on the other side of the bed, next to the large window. He took in the details now that he had a moment, noting that the TV was on up in the corner -- dialed into some local news network that was unfortunately covering the events of today in relation to a red and blue costumed hero who'd saved the day -- and that Lex was hooked up to a few machines, as well as on an IV drip of some kind.

"Well, this is certainly. . . awkward," came Lex's voice suddenly. Clark met his eyes and for a moment they were both on the same page.

Yeah, it really was because, truthfully, neither of them actually knew the other person at all.

"My name's Clark Kent," he offered up, and then stuck his hand out near Lex's in an automatic attempt at shaking hands. "Uh, sorry," he quickly said, just starting to pull his hand back, when. . .

Lex reached out and gripped his hand, and it was so familiar, like déjà vu, with the same amount of pressure and points of contact. They went up and down twice and then Lex said, in a tone somewhat amused, "Apparently mine's Alexander Joseph Luthor, but I'm guessing you already know that."

And then Lex released Clark's hand, taking back his own and setting it down to rest on top of the sheet, while his other hand, his right, stayed underneath. He was staring at Clark, at his face in particular, and his eyes were narrowed a bit, his mouth compressed a little. He looked for all the world like he was searching for something, something in Clark's face, and Clark himself didn't know if that was a good thing or a bad thing, but as he'd done his own bit of assessing just a moment ago, it somehow only seemed fair to allow Lex his turn.

Then, within a few seconds, Lex seemed to find what he was looking for. His face relaxed, his body language went looser too -- shoulders coming down and head lifting up and moving back a little from where he'd been unconsciously leaning forward. Lex even looked pleased with whatever conclusion he'd come to. He smiled, and then slowly that smile shifted into a familiar smirk.

It was a bittersweet sight.

In response to Lex's earlier attempt at fishing for information, Clark then nodded and said, "Yes, I do know your name. We've met before," and there he paused before adding, "Lex."

"On good terms or bad?" was the unexpected response, and the smirk was still there, but it had shifted a bit in mood. Now, instead of happy and pleased, it was more ironic and cautious. Lex now had a look on his face that Clark had rarely seen. He looked hesitant.

Clark decided then and there to just give it a try, to go for it. What could it hurt? If his plan backfired, he'd be no worse off than he was before, and if it worked. . .

"I'd say we broke about even, honestly," Clark confessed, meeting Lex's smirk with one of his own. "Although, for what it's worth, in my head I still call you 'friend.'" He couldn't help smiling sadly at that point, as the man he wanted to say that to wasn't really the man in front of him. But his sincerity must have come across because Lex kept looking at him and didn't seem alarmed. After a moment, he even nodded, showing he at least somewhat understood what Clark was trying to say.

"So we weren't all that close. . . " Lex started, trailing off with a lift of his eyebrows.

" . . . anymore," Clark finished for him, with a nod.

"Well," Lex said on a gusty sigh, "that seems at least a good deal better than my, apparent, connection with the other man." At Clark's raised eyebrows, Lex clarified, saying, "Queen. Oliver Queen, I guess? The blond man, about my age, handsome, tall?" And Clark smiled at both the description and at Lex lifting his arm up over his own head to indicate just how tall he thought Oliver was. Lex noticed Clark's amusement, and gave him a questioning look in return.

"Sorry," he said in response, schooling his expression a little, "but you're right. You and Oliver never got along." He hesitated then, not wanting to color Lex's perception of Ollie now, but still trying to lay it all out there as much as he could. "You both just butted heads on a lot of things. I think-- I think it started out as playground rivalry, and just. . . escalated until it was something else completely." Lex wasn't looking at Clark anymore, really, even though his eyes were still technically on him. Instead, he had that thoughtful look on his face, like he was distractedly thinking about something else really hard.

Clark just hoped what he'd said had shed some light on Oliver's no doubt lukewarm interactions with Lex over the past few hours. He couldn't even imagine what it would be like if he suddenly found himself depending on someone who seemed to hate him for some unknown. . .

Actually, he thought, he did know a bit about that. The other Clark certainly had a way of turning people against him and then switching places with Clark so he was left trying to clean up the mess.

He looked at Lex closely again, coming to a sudden realization. That was almost precisely Lex's predicament now. He was stuck here with apparently no memory at all of what he'd done or what had been done to him over the course of his entire life. He'd been just suddenly thrust into this position, with everyone coming at him from all directions, most of them cold, indifferent, or downright hostile to him, and all he could do was try and pick up the pieces, make some kind of life out of the mess he'd been dumped with.

God, Clark could so identify with that, and yet it was worlds bigger than he could comprehend.

Suddenly feeling like he'd overstepped his bounds, Clark gave another awkward smile and said, "Well, I'm sure I've taken up enough of your time. A lot of people are waiting out there to talk to you and help you figure things out, so I should be going." Then he hesitated, looking at Lex and being looked at in return. "But if you need anything," Clark offered, "I'm here. . . Lex. I'd be glad to help, all right?"

Lex nodded at him, his expression back to thoughtful but this time fully centered on Clark, it seemed. It was eerily close to the last expression he'd worn when they'd encountered each other in the ruins of the Smallville castle, like a distant cousin of that look, and just seeing it made Clark feel uneasy and caused the hair on the back of his neck to shoot straight up.

"Well, I'll leave you to it then," he offered in parting, going to take a step back when again. . .

Lex reached out to stop him with that same slow openness -- his hand on Clark's arm open, his face also, for the most part. Lex's posture, his entire bearing was light and free, simultaneously empty and so full of something new and different, looking at Clark in a way he'd never before looked at him, and that somehow Clark had missed so goddamn much.

No, scratch that, like he'd rarely looked at him -- happy, hopeful, even with everything swirling around him, all the controversy and deep dark serious wrongs, even without knowing hardly anything about who he was or his own personal history, and this was Lex smiling.

And so goddamn light it was like he was the one flying and able to float on air, right here, right in front of Clark's eyes.

He's got that fresh start now, Clark recognized, and felt some emotion he didn't want to examine too closely.

"Yeah?" Clark asked instead, keeping his tone and volume superficial, upbeat. He didn't want to ruin the mood, which despite the topic they'd been "discussing" was still surprisingly pleasant. 

But Lex actually reddened a little when Clark met his eyes. He's blushing, Clark realized in wonder. Lex was somehow. . . embarrassed.

"I-- I wanted to express my gratitude," he told Clark bluntly, eyes locked on his in a blatant show of that determination the man had always had in abundance. Clark must have made some face at that -- confusion, no doubt, since that's what he was feeling -- because Lex then briefly smiled before nodding at the images of the costumed hero still flashing by on the TV screen, and adding, some incredible tone flavoring every word, "For all you're doing out there, for the-- the help you're giving people."

Clark just stared at him in shock and Lex looked right back and said, and this was not a dream because Clark could never manage to dream up even something like this, "It's incredible, and you are, and I just had to say something." He gave a little self-deprecating chuckle. "I'm well aware that no doubt I'm stomping all over about a million rules of etiquette in even bringing this up, but. . . "

And Clark continued gawking at Lex, and in return was studied just as closely under that gray-blue stare as he'd ever been, only different too because everything was different now.

And yet nothing was. Everything was the same, the same circumstances, same opportunities, same countless chances to change course and shift fate, and all he had to do-- all they had to do was. . .

"Well, there's no fooling you, I guess," Clark said, and then he smiled in answer to Lex's enthusiastic grin, and he put his hand on Lex's shoulder, and it felt like stepping back in time.

Or like they'd dodged a bullet.

Together.


	4. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was but the surface of a person—empty within.

The day starts out pretty well, but that trend doesn't hold much past noon. By then, he's been poked, prodded, pierced, briefed and debriefed, evaluated no less than four times by four different psychiatrists, and once by the hospital's own chief Neurologist. He's been mocked, whispered about, sneered, laughed, and pointed at, as well as ignored, put up with, and repeatedly, harshly, disregarded and brushed off.

After the third round of a nurse coming in and taking blood is completed, he unashamedly walks into the nearby private bathroom and locks the door behind himself. He stays in there for a good ten minutes, and it's only when an already familiar knocking sounds on the door that he comes out.

Queen's lounging in one of the chairs at that point, the TV remote held loosely in his hand as he rapidly changes channels. He doesn't slow his clicking, no matter the station, but he does immediately look over when the bathroom door accidentally whacks back against the wall. There's a distinctly startled expression on Queen's face as he looks over.

"Sorry," Alexander says quietly, quirking his lips in a neutral, polite, careful, closemouthed smile. "It got away from me there," he adds, opening his mouth to continue but at the last second deciding against saying, 'Didn't mean to startle you.'

He doesn't think that would go over real well, not with Queen. Clark Kent seemed like he was more agreeable, and maybe he would've smiled back at Alexander, but Queen. . .

Queen simply blinks, narrows his eyes a little, and then shrugs as he turns his head back towards the TV screen. Alexander in turn finds himself frowning, but as he crosses the room back to the bed he finds it incredibly easy to modulate his expression, smooth it out and hide it. He's somewhat confused at how effortlessly he does it—confused, intrigued, and uneasy.

He's not sure he likes what that says about him. It implies something else about this Lex Luthor he supposedly is, or was, or used to be, or might be again someday.

How good a liar is he? And if he's as skilled at deception as he thinks, feels, somehow knows he is, then the next question is why? Why would he have to be good at–

"Looks like you're thinking some pretty serious thoughts over there," Queen suddenly says into the silence. This time, it's Alexander's turn to startle a little. He flinches, lifting his head from where he's unconsciously dropped it down, and looking up at Queen. This time though, he doesn't shift his expression, and feels something, some emotion he can't name, pulse deep in his chest when Queen actually winces a little after getting a good look at Alexander's face.

He thinks he himself looks worried, confused, even a tiny bit scared, and Queen reacts to the sight almost as if he were struck in the face with it. For some reason—and maybe it's just because like Clark Kent had said, Queen and Lex Luthor had never got along—Alexander feels relief, even a thin note of pleasure at seeing this Oliver Queen, supposed former opponent and schoolyard rival, so visibly off-balance. It's nice, even if it makes Alexander himself kind of petty.

But, in true elementary school logic, Queen did start it. It's not like Alexander insulted him right off the bat or anything. He can't help it that the man he was, this Lex, never got along with Queen, and seems like he might have not been a very good guy either. Alexander has no memory of this enmity between them, just like he can't recall, even though now he kind of wants to, the seemingly chaotic friendship of Lex Luthor and Clark Kent.

Why couldn't he be stuck here with Clark as babysitter? Alexander can't even figure out why Queen keeps coming by in the first place. He obviously doesn't like to, and yet here they are, day three, with both of them walking on eggshells around each other and Queen despondent while Alexander is quietly flipping out.

Now, though, Queen is looking at him, studying him, much like Clark Kent had, and also like the lawyers from this huge company that Alexander somehow owns now or something. He isn't sure how that works because even the lawyers had looked shocked and stumped about Alexander being here in the hospital, as if he isn't supposed to be.

It's all just. . . overwhelmingly confusing.

So Alexander sighs, and just tries again to be at the very least neutral to Queen, even though it'd serve the guy right if he just ignored him this time like he'd been ignoring Alexander for the past three days.

Still, best not to pick a fight with a guy like Queen. He looks like he'd know what he was doing in a brawl. Queen's toned and fit like he keeps busy physically, and if he'd disliked Lex Luthor then he probably wouldn't hesitate to jump all over Alexander for even the smallest transgression.

He meets Queen's eyes for a moment before looking away again and saying, "Well, there's a lot to think about. It's not every day a guy just wakes up missing most of his memory." Alexander looks over again, even gets an acknowledging nod from Queen for his point.

Then Queen's switching off the TV and setting the remote aside, and then he's turning in the chair to face Alexander on the bed head-on, and all the while he's wearing a certain look Alexander doesn't like at all. It's calculating, assessing, suspicious, and instantly, before he can even think about it, Alexander's on the defensive.

Great.

"You said 'most'," Queen repeats, and it's not exactly a question, but Alexander knows what he's getting at. Still, he feels like making the guy work for it. It's payback for Queen assuming the worst of him when he hasn't done a single thing yet, when he's only ever been completely forthright and upstanding as far back as his memory stretches, which, granted, is a mere three days and counting, but still.

"What do you remember?" Queen then bluntly asks him, and Alexander almost, but not quite, flinches in response to the man's cold tone.

"Different things," is Alexander's instant response, and Queen frowns before gesturing for him to continue. So Alexander sighs, mostly in frustration, as despite thinking about this exact topic for the past three days he's still no closer to figuring it out than when he started.

"What, are we going to play 20 Questions? What sort of things?" Queen retorts, and whereas it could've come out sounding antagonistic and mocking, the man's tone is actually somewhat humorous.

Well, okay then.

"I get– " he attempts, stalling as he searches for the right way to phrase it, and winding up just repeatedly gesturing with his hand. "The– the feelings are there," Alexander finally manages, looking at Queen and trying, really trying, to answer him. "And I just—know things." At a look from Queen, he clarifies. "Like, the days of the week, how to tie my shoes, what the capital of North Dakota is, history, music, art, math, science—I know all this– this stuff," he says, becoming frustrated anew at the entire situation he finds himself in. "And yet, the simplest things are a complete blank."

"Like your name," Queen supplies, sitting on the edge of his seat now with his hands tightly wrapped around each other. They're up in front of his face, blocking the lower half of it from Alexander's view. His eyes are still visible, though, and they're more than enough to go on.

Alexander nods. "Yes," he readily agrees, "or what I did for a living—specifically, not just what I've been told." He tries to get Queen's attention then, to get those eyes to focus on his, knowing for some goddamned reason that this man in particular responds to eye contact. Alexander ducks his head, tilting it to the side and not saying anything for a moment, and sure enough Queen finally meets his stare dead-on.

Then Alexander dives back into the metaphorical deep end, without being able to recall ever really diving into anything at all.

"I know you don't like me," he says, and he can't help the frown that no doubt pops up when he's the first one to blink in their little staring contest. Queen doesn't move a muscle in response though, and Alexander takes that as a compliment of sorts, or at least a sign of a truce. He goes on, speeding up as he gets further along. "But I don't know why, or for how long this has been going on. Clark Kent said we went to school together," Alexander boldly tells him, and quietly files away the reaction that name causes, "and he seemed to believe it was some kind of childhood grudge that's escalated over the years, but then now you and I are business partners? How does that work?"

Queen shifts in his chair, finally bringing his hands down but keeping them locked together. Then he almost shrugs in answer to Alexander's questions.

And that pisses him off.

"You see?" Alexander snaps out before he can stop himself. "That's what I'm talking about, that right there! You can barely tolerate being in the same room with me, let alone looking me in the eyes, and yet I'm supposed believe that we somehow manage to put aside our differences on a daily basis and together successfully head up what I've been led to understand is a very influential company? It's absurd."

Something, some fleeting emotion, passes across Queen's face at the end of Alexander's rant. He doesn't get up and leave though, which is hopefully a good sign. Instead, the two of them awkwardly sit there in silence for far too long. Alexander drops his eyes down, trying to simultaneously study and ignore the mess that is his right hand. It suddenly occurs to him to wonder who exactly knows about the state it's in. Is it common knowledge, something that's always been there? Why is it like this—all blistered and raw? The hospital staff didn't make any mention of it directly, and Alexander hasn't mustered up the nerve to ask yet. . .

"What else do you want to know?" Queen unexpectedly asks, shattering the silence. Alexander looks up again, and this time there's a different feeling in the air. Queen releases his hands from the white-knuckled death grip he's had them in for the last few minutes and just sits there calmly looking at Alexander, who finds himself at a loss as to where to even start asking questions.

Queen actually briefly smiles at him when he doesn't immediately respond—well, more of a neutral grimace, but the animosity and indifference definitely seem to have evaporated for the time being.

"I can't guarantee anything of course," Queen points out, his voice quiet and suddenly rough, "but I'll do my best."

Alexander studies him for a moment, quickly coming to the conclusion that Queen's sincere if still obviously ill at ease. He decides to take pity on him, for now.

He sighs, then says, "I'll make a list—give it to you tomorrow or the next day: Relevant Information I Know I Need to Know but Currently Don't."

Queen makes a noise at that, something smaller than a cough or a snort, but along the same line. "Sure thing," he agrees. "We'll, uh– we'll keep it on a need-to-know basis."

Alexander doesn't even try to catch himself as his mouth quirks, the corners of his lips lifting just a little in response to the pun. He does shake his head slowly though, and is surprised but definitely pleased when Queen's face momentarily tips into good humor. Then he stands, and the moment breaks. Queen nods on his way out of the room, and that's oddly when Alexander feels comfortable enough to just start rattling off the first questions that come to mind.

"Where am I from?" is first out of his mouth, and that stops Queen cold right as he reaches the glass door of the hospital room. "Who are my parents? They're not still alive, are they? I had assumed they were dead because no one's turned up to say otherwise, but– but then Clark Kent came in and he wasn't even a friend anymore. And you're here, which made me wonder if everyone else hadn't just already—given up."

Queen hasn't turned around, hasn't noticeably moved at all, so Alexander just keeps talking in the hopes that something he says will eventually elicit a response, preferably a positive one, but he's not exactly choosy at this point.

"What about other family—brothers, sisters, cousins, aunts, uncles? Where do I live, and have I always lived here? This is Kansas, right? When was I born and where? Here, in the city? Some other country? And where did I go to school? Where did you and I go to school?" He stalls for a moment, but can't figure out what the point is in waiting when he now knows exactly what he wants, needs, must find out.

That being the case, it's still embarrassingly difficult to get the next words out. Alexander stutters and stops so many times that he wouldn't be the least bit surprised if Queen got lost in the middle of his babbling. "Do you know– what are– what's the reason that I'm bald? I don't need to shave. That much is obvious, and of course I've heard certain things from the staff, but I'd like a definite answer and. . . "

He'd been in such a rush to get the words out there at the end that he hadn't even paid any attention to Queen, who in the meantime had half-turned around so he was now looking back at Alexander over his shoulder.

He looks strange, halfway between nauseated and something distinctly sadder.

"That's– that's all—for now," Alexander says. "I'll write it down."

Queen just nods, turns, and seems to very carefully and deliberately leave. He doesn't say a single word of acknowledgement and barely makes a sound as he opens and closes the door. But, it didn't seem like a hostile silence at all, more like Queen was holding back, refraining from answering or making a comment.

God, at this point Alexander would welcome something like that from anyone, let alone someone who "knows" him. Right now he feels like he's lost at sea, washed ashore on some strange and completely foreign land mass. He doesn't know how he got here, or how to get back to someplace safe. He doesn't even know where "here" is, or if it's not in fact safer than where he was before. Maybe he doesn't want to go back, and that right there is what he finds his true fear is.

Maybe Lex Luthor isn't someone he wants to remember being, not if the only person who shows up to help him clearly doesn't like him, and the only people who have visited are either supposedly employed by him or former friends he long ago alienated.

No family has shown up yet, no wife, girlfriend, or– or boyfriend either, no real friends, not even a secretary or work colleague, apart from Queen again.

The fact remains that this whole experience feels like nothing more than everyone just going through the motions of caring. Queen being here strikes Alexander as some kind of penance, maybe some residual guilt over whatever feud the two of them had reportedly been involved in. The lawyers and doctors are all business. The shrinks seem to view him as some kind of Holy Grail of professional curiosity.

But, there was one person who seemed to genuinely care, cared enough to be honest with him right from the start. Alexander can admit in retrospect and to himself if not outright to anyone else that he'd thrown in that last comment to Clark Kent as a sort of spur of the moment test. He'd had the TV on practically since the moment he'd been checked into this room, trying to jumpstart his memory, jog it into remembering anything about anything, and every single local or national news station had been broadcasting a looping report on the red and blue. . . flying hero, who'd just that very same day saved the world from certain destruction. Over and over again it was photos of this person doing the most amazing things imaginable, and in a few instances the camera got impressively close to the subject.

So when Clark Kent and his friend—girlfriend?—had come in the other day, and then it'd been just the two of them, and Clark had started talking, saying things that were too obviously uncomfortable for him to say to be anything other than the painful truth, Alexander had just latched onto the man's face for some reason. It'd struck him as incredibly familiar, and when he looked more intently. . .

It was the same face, and this Clark Kent was exactly alike in build and big enough in body to be that same red and blue flying hero. And then of course, there'd been the feeling Alexander had gotten upon first considering the possibility. It had felt right, true, like it just fit perfectly.

And he couldn't remember ever having put together a puzzle, but that moment when he'd looked at Clark Kent and just known he was the hero, that was a feeling Alexander wouldn't mind experiencing again. Then, it'd become something even better, as Clark had responded to Alexander's statement with the truth, the exact, absolute truth, right there for both of them to know. Clark Kent was that hero, and Alexander had figured it out, and now they both knew the other knew they knew.

Clark had passed Alexander's test with. . . flying colors. 

***

As he walked down the corridor, the light intensified until it was a blinding white. There was heat then too, a fire that began inside him, searing and burning away everything within until it had no place to go but out. It burst forth, set free into the world, and though he tried to pull it back inside, the fire slipped through his fingers. It raced across his skin, over his head and face and then down his chest. It punctured holes in him as it went, leaving nothing but raw and red flesh in its wake. Not even bones or muscles or organs remained. He was only skin after the fire. He was but the surface of a person—empty within.

Then he stood up; then he looked up.

And he was filled suddenly, swelling like a balloon. The fire wasn't extinguished, merely banked. He bounced down the corridor then, not rolling with ponderous weight but barely adhering to gravity's law as he bobbed up and ricocheted. In his journey, he struck numerous walls, ceilings, fell flat on his face across dozens of floors, and repeatedly hit rock bottom, and yet he always rebounded. He always bounced back.

The great blinding light farther off spun, shifted, and it too dimmed and wobbled a little at times, but ever was it present. As he tried to steer himself towards it, sometimes the light in turn seemed to move closer. Other times, it drew back, but always it remained untouched and impassive, and he basked in that blinding light, even as he shrank from it.

And he was full to bursting as he bounced upward once more, and when he turned and saw the light had changed again and was right nex–

That's when Alexander woke up.


End file.
